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The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. E. “Quite an unimportant one,” he assured her. The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. Hardened as he may be, that would touch him. He pressed the bloody wrist into her mouth, and she though she could not feel it or 72 control it, she knew she was being made to swallow. This time she tried to kill me with a dagger. The windows were still darkened—perhaps she was not home yet.
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